Bar Fights and Missions
by Faye Dartmouth
Summary: Because a bar fight is nowhere in the mission overview and he has no protocol and how the hell did Billy get involved in a bar fight?


Title: Bar Fights and Missions (and Other Things that Always Go Wrong for the ODS)

Disclaimer: I still don't own Chaos.

A/N: This is not my fault. moogsthewriter prompted me with the words: Billy, bottle, blunt force trauma, and blue. And this fic wrote itself. Really! She also beta'ed this random foray :)

Summary: Because a bar fight is nowhere in the mission overview and he has no protocol and how the hell did Billy get involved in a _bar fight_?

-o-

Billy is a good drinker.

True, this isn't a skill that many would put on their resume, though it has certain relevance for a spy in the field. After all, the ability to drink heartily and still retain total control of one's faculties has certain perks. It's also saved his life more than once.

So even though he's had several rounds with his new drug trafficking cohort, he's still well within his limits, even if he is nice and buzzed.

Still, this means Billy sees the fight coming in time to know there's no way to head it off. That's part of the problem with drug dealers: they're so prone to violence, and his new friend is as ready to buy Billy a beer as he is to pick a fight with the large, burly, and generally sour group of men at the end of the bar.

The problem is, of course, that Billy's sober enough to know such a fight is a bad idea – one that he and his new comrade are likely to lose, at any rate – and it serves absolutely no intelligence value for the mission at large.

And yet, probably more importantly, there is no feasible means for Billy to skirt such an unsavory event and still keep his cover in working order.

So when drinks turn to words, words turn to jeers, and jeers turn to blows, Billy finishes his drink and readily joins the fray.

-o-

The mission is easy, Michael thinks.

At least, this mission is easy as far as missions for the ODS go. This distinction probably matters more than Michael lets on, but after all these years, it's hard to keep such things in perspective.

Still, they've infiltrated many organizations, many a lot more dangerous and with higher security than a low-level cartel along the Rio Grande. Plus, they're not even dismantling the organization. This mission is simply a short term intelligence gain, working a small time drug dealer to get insight into his clients and suppliers, some of which have links to various anti-American outfits with tendencies toward violence and general mayhem.

In short, Billy just has to make friends under the guise of being the new dealer in town, find out a few names, and then leave the lines of communication open for any future needs. That's it.

As far as plans go, this is by far one of Michael's simpler operations.

And it's been going really well. Billy is good at making quick friends and after several days of buddy-buddy drug dealing, everyone in the organization believes Billy's legit. In fact, Billy and his new friends are celebrating their sure-to-be-profitable partnership at the local bar when things go wrong.

Which, of course they go wrong. Because this is the ODS and this is Billy.

Even so, Michael expected the problem would be something a bit more...pressing. Maybe even dramatic. Worthy, at any rate. Not a bar fight.

Though it does seem about right. Billy always manages to avoid the obvious trouble but finds peril in the most roundabout ways. He's the kind of guy who can get through a firefight unscathed but somehow severs his femoral artery in a cake cutting incident gone awry in the CIA break room.

So _of course _it's a bar fight.

In Billy's defense, Michael knows the Scot tries to get out of it. He tries to talk his new friends down, but they're pretty set on it. He even tries shooing away their opponents but everyone in the bar seems intent on fighting and Billy's always been one to just go with the crowd when he has to.

And he really does have to. It's part of his cover; this may not be a high-risk takedown, but it's still a pretty critical mission in the long term.

Nonetheless, when the first punch is thrown, Michael braces himself, flinching just barely when the next fist catches Billy in the jaw and all hell breaks loose.

-o-

Rick's so prepared for every possible outcome in a mission that when their mark starts throwing punches, his inclination is to jump between them and explain patiently why such a move would be completely unhelpful to their ultimate objective.

Rick is aware, though, that such a move would be equally counterproductive as it would expose Billy's cover and undo all the work they've put into the mission. But mostly, it wouldn't do any good since the man is clearly drunk out of his mind and solely focused on some form of disturbance.

Besides, the fight's already started, and punches are flying and Rick's sitting at his table in the back of the bar gaping.

Because a bar fight is nowhere in the mission overview and he has no protocol and how the hell did Billy get involved in a _bar fight_?

Cautiously, Rick's eyes flicker to Michael, who is sitting tensely at his own table, eyes keen. He meets Rick's gaze and shakes his head. Off to their right, Casey is holding a pool cue, waiting for a sign that Michael doesn't give.

The directive is clear. A bar fight isn't exactly what they had planned, but it is likely to prove Billy's loyalty.

And this is one hell of a bar fight.

Rick's never actually been in a bar fight before, but it's a bit more chaotic than he might have envisioned. There are no clear sides; people seem to be fighting indiscriminately and almost gleefully as the ruckus spreads like wildfire.

A chair crashes into a wall and three more men join the melee. Even if this is probably a good way for Billy to solidify his cover, it's also likely to run up one hell of a bar tab. Rick envisions explaining that kind of cost to Higgins and isn't sure whether he's amused or horrified at the notion.

Still, it's almost a spectacular thing to watch. Rick's steered clear of this kind of maleficence most of his life, so to see a group of drunken men brawling haphazardly is oddly fascinating. Their fighting tactics are less than polished; it's mostly just grunting and swinging wildly, landing whatever can be landed, be it on someone's face or the nearest bar stool.

Billy's right in the midst of it, and Rick knows Billy well enough to see that he's not giving it his all. He's making quite the show of it, of course – this is Billy, after all – but he's not landing half the punches he could and he's certainly not landing them with the force or skill Rick knows he's capable of. In short, he's still playing the part of Liam Carney, intoxicated drug runner looking for an in with the local cartel in northern Mexico.

Casey still looks ready to pounce, more and more anxious with each passing moment. Michael is standing now, backing up as the fight envelops his table and a man crashes through it, clattering to the floor at Michael's feet.

Rick's sucks in a breath, holding it, but Michael just shakes his head even if his brow is furrowed and his lips are thin.

It's still status quo. This is still within all acceptable parameters. This isn't a problem.

But then someone breaks a bottle over Billy's head and spins him around, brandishing the broken end while Billy wavers on his feet.

And everything changes.

-o-

Casey knows exactly when things are out of control. To the uninitiated observer, the broken bottle over Billy's head might seem like the obvious turning point. It is when Michael finally concedes that some form of interference is necessary, after all.

But Casey's more trained than that; he knows a fight and he knows Billy, and things went south the second Billy accepted the fourth round of drinks.

That much alcohol with that many criminals is a recipe for disaster. Unavoidable in this case, perhaps, but Casey's been ready for this complication ever since then.

So when the oaf finally does catch Billy with the bottle, he doesn't wait for the sign he knows Michael will give. He doesn't wait for anything; he just gets to work.

It's rather elementary. These men are probably capable fighters under normal circumstances - if crude head bashing and brazen executions are your sort of thing, anyway - but they're not exactly good with strategy and nuance on the battlefield. Besides, they're all drunk, which is clearly working against them. Casey enjoys an alcoholic beverage as much as the next person but he never drinks until he's compromised. That's just stupid.

But Casey can use stupid and he will use stupid without guilt or hesitation. Contrary to any archaic standards or idealistic notions, fighting is less about nobility and a whole lot more about survival, and Casey really just wants to slam these idiots into oblivion so they can finish this mission and go someplace where the drinking water is safe.

With that set firmly in his mind, Casey starts in with the pool cue, taking out a couple of drunken morons with a few swings alone. When the cue finally breaks in half, he abandons it, if only because he doesn't want to kill anyone, just incapacitate them. The last thing he needs is to get tagged by local police. Or write up additional casualty reports.

It's irrelevant anyway. Hand to hand is more interesting, and he takes out the next string of opponents without any further complications.

Michael has joined in; Rick seems to be hesitating to find his entrance. In all of the chaos, he loses track of Billy; Casey's too intent on finishing this once and for all so they can fight the battles that actually matter on this mission.

When he gets to the last two men standing, they both stop cold and stare at him. It's part shock, it's part anger. "Who the hell are you?" one finally asks, his English broken and stuttered.

Casey doesn't flinch and makes a face. "A concerned bystander," he says, as evenly as possible given the audacity of his lie.

They keep staring.

Casey narrows his eyes and realizes his explanation is being deemed unsatisfactory. Wearily, he presses to lips together. "And you jackasses interrupted my pool game," he adds. "And I was ahead."

Maybe they believe him. Maybe they don't. It doesn't much matter because the fight is over now.

The others are groaning, getting slowly to their feet and nursing their wounds. Some limp off to the bathroom; others seem to curl up and cry a bit. Casey takes some satisfaction in this.

He's letting himself relax, stepping back and straightening his jacket, ready to resume business as usual when Michael's voice stops him.

"Hey," he calls. "I think we're going to need an ambulance!"

Casey knows. He can hear it in Michael's voice. This is going from inconvenient to bad to worse, just like that, because if Michael's calling for an ambulance and Rick is standing in Casey's line of vision, there's only one option left.

And Casey _knows. _

Knew it the minute this mission came up, knew it when Billy volunteered to go under. Knew it when Billy made friends so quickly. Knew it when the mark bought the damn fourth round.

He _knows, _but he still has to look.

Turning stiffly, he stays impassive, eyes fixed and expression neutral until he sees the blood.

-o-

It's a bloody mess.

His countrymen are prone to saying such things, and usually it's nothing more than a colorful expletive. This time, however, it's quite literal.

Bleeding in a fight is not so unusual. Billy's done more than his share of bleeding throughout the course of his life, and a bloody nose or a split lip is uncomfortable but hardly much to worry about.

And he has a bloody nose and a split lip right now. Along with a nasty gash on his scalp and a case of blunt force trauma to accompany it.

He remembers how that happened - vaguely. He'd been parrying sloppily when one of the blokes had taken the bottle to his head. Billy's good, but he's not that good, and perhaps he had underestimated the ferocity of bar fights.

Because he'd counted on taking a beating.

He hadn't counted on someone wielding a broken bottle at him and stabbing at him.

Such things take all the fun out of a perfectly innocent bar fight. If you can't trust petty criminals to stay petty, then what can you trust?

Billy doesn't know; he just knows that a drunken man roughly twice his side smashed a bottle over his head and then tried to stab him with the rest, just for good measure.

It's a credit to Billy's training that he avoided the direct hit to the stomach. But he thinks it's somewhat understandable getting nicked in the arm.

At least, it seems that way for a while. Because he takes the man down with a few easy blows and turns to fight another. That one goes down and then another, and Billy turns for the next when his head gets light and his equilibrium leaves him and the next thing he knows, he's lying on his back staring at the ceiling.

Blinking, he lifts his head. His vision is inexplicably blurry and his head's still swimming and the only thing he really sees is the blood.

The damn bloody mess.

His stomach roils and his head drops back. He blinks again, slower this time, and everything dims. Time decreases in speed and Michael's face bobs in front of him. His lips are moving, eyes on Billy, but Billy can't hear and certainly can't respond. He can only blink and stare, blink and stare as everything just slips away.

-o-

The brachial artery.

There are over 60,000 miles of blood vessels in the human body, most of which can be severed or cut off without serious risk. And of all that length, Billy manages to get slashed in his brachial artery. This not only seriously impedes the flow of blood to his arm and hand, but it's likely to kill him.

Quickly.

Michael sees it happening but can't get there in time to stop it. He sees Billy avoid the killing blow and take the slice in the arm instead. He sees the blood immediately, even before Billy does. The Scot seems oblivious, still fighting, and Michael has to take down two men just to get to him.

He's too late, though. Billy stops, hesitating and eyes wide, and he goes down like a bag of rocks.

And there's no time for anything else.

Cover be damned, Michael takes his belt off, lifting Billy's inert arm and tightening the leather as far as it can go. There are no belt holes small enough so he positions himself and leverages his weight to provide the necessary pressure. The bleeding noticeably slows and Michael adjusts his grip until it comes to a trickle.

"Hey," he calls, working to keep his voice even. "I think we need an ambulance over here."

It's an understatement to say the least, but he reminds himself that as far as this crowd is concerned, Michael doesn't know Billy.

The room seems to freeze upon his pronouncement - they're all up for a fight but dealing with real consequences seems to be not their style - and Casey and Rick are the first ones to his side. Others follow, including their mark, who actually looks worried. "Is he okay?"

Michael grits his teeth. "I'm no doctor," he says. "But he's lost a lot of blood."

"Can we stitch him up?" the mark asks.

Michael looks up at him, warily.

Casey interjects. "We do that and he won't live to tell the tale."

It's grim enough to silence the mark; Michael just wishes it were a ploy.

Beneath him, Billy's deathly pale. His breathing is staggered, even as Casey presses two fingers into Billy's neck. He glances at the floor and sees the wide spread of Billy's blood. "He's already lost a couple of liters," he says.

Rick looks ill. "Is there anything I can do?"

"What about that ambulance?" Michael barks.

There's a tittering in the crowd and someone says, "On their way!"

This is the good news. This means that it's still under control. Because Billy is hurt and he's bleeding, but he's alive and his cover is in order, and Michael can make this work.

Michael will make this work.

And then, Billy's body tenses, his breath hitching before the Scot goes limp, head lolling to the side, and Michael realizes that this may not work after all.

-o-

Rick's seen people die before. He has. It's not a pretty thing and it's not something he has a lot of experience with but his time with the ODS has been a dramatic teacher, if nothing else. But really, as hard as all that is, that's not the death that's always stood out to him.

No, that comes earlier, when he was no more than ten. He'd been at his brother's soccer game, studying on the sidelines. His entire family was there when his grandfather had suddenly clutched his chest and gone to his knees.

And Rick remembers it clearly. He can't remember the weather or who was winning or what book he was reading, but he remembers seeing his grandfather's body go ramrod straight on the ground before the tension just drained out of him.

His mother had been crying and someone shoved him out of the way, turning his head and whisking him off, but Rick had known that he'd seen his grandfather die. Hours later, when the news was official, Rick could still remember the moment it happened, beyond a shadow of a doubt.

That's what it's like now. Because he sees Billy on the floor – long limbs splayed and the pool of blood beneath him – and that's okay. He sees Billy's colorless skin and slack features and thinks they can deal with that. But then Billy tenses and goes limp and Rick remembers. Rick knows.

His grandfather never came back. There had been a doctor at the field and two nurses in the stands and they couldn't bring him back.

Rick doesn't know if they can bring Billy back. The uncertainty is terrifying, numbing him, and suddenly none of Rick's training matters because he doesn't know what to do.

Michael and Casey do, though. Muttering a curse, Casey shoves his way to Billy's side, going to his knees and holding himself upright. Michael glances up at Rick and says, "Hold this," handing off the tourniquet before Rick has a chance to say no.

It's a clumsy transition, and Rick's heart thumps loudly as he maneuvers his way into position to keep the pressure up. In his mind, he thinks there's not much point. People don't bleed when they're dead; if the heart's not beating, then there's not much point.

But Michael's at Billy's head, pinching his nose and tilting his chin back. He breathes – once and twice – and Billy's chest moves in response.

There's no hesitation as Casey starts compressions. Rough, steady movements, counted off in huffs of air as he exerts just the right pressure.

Rick watches, detached. He watches as Michael breathes and Casey pushes and Billy just lies there. It's not right, but it's all there is. They're fighting the inevitable, it seems like, but that's what they do. That's who they are.

He hopes.

Billy's lips are blue, though, his eyes still closed. His body is listless and Rick thinks the one thing they don't want to admit: Billy's dead.

In his mind, he hears his mother wailing. He hears someone praying. Michael breathes, and Casey moves, and Rick _hopes_while Billy just lies there.

-o-

CPR is a pop culture panacea. It's a handy tool to ramp up the angst, a convenient solution in overwrought television dramas. Because of this, too many people think that CPR is widely successful, that a few pushes and a few breaths will bring their deceased loved ones back from the great beyond.

Simply put, too many people are ignorant fools.

Because CPR is only marginally effective and largely depends on the type of trauma that the body has sustained. Drowning victims can be especially receptive if rescue measures are employed promptly, but other types of massive trauma will yield varied results, and really, most patients show better responses from other medical interventions. An electrical charge is always more effective, and in many cases, CPR is merely a stopgap until more help can be used.

So Casey understands that CPR is not really the best solution. After all, Billy is dead from acute blood loss. With a reduced supply, the shock of his injury was probably more than he could handle, sending him into immediate distress. If Billy's blood supply is halfway depleted - and given the amount of blood on the floor, that is a possibility - then they're just wasting their time. If, by chance, he's above that amount - and Casey has to believe this to be true- then it's possible that CPR could work.

Possible isn't great odds, but at this point, Casey will take them. Billy pins him for a pessimist, but Casey prone to his delusions when the persistent to succeed is a must.

In this case, it is a must.

Because Billy dying is not acceptable.

Casey doesn't even have to justify that. Billy is his teammate. Billy is his friend. Therefore, Billy can't die.

And Casey dares the universe to tell him otherwise.

So he pushes on Billy's chest, feeling bones shift, and doesn't stop. He sees Michael breathe and Rick hold the blood at bay and Casey just keeps pushing.

It's all there is. Because as long as Billy's heart's beating, as long as air is moving into his lungs, he's alive. Even if Billy's not doing it himself, he's still alive. That's what matters. That's what _matters. _

Then, Billy jolts.

It's so sudden that it nearly knocks Casey back onto his haunches, but Michael is there, rolling the Scot carefully onto his side while Rick fumbles with the tourniquet. Billy gasps and splutters, eyes still closed and lips still blue, but he's _breathing. _

Alive.

The relief is palpable and Casey almost laughs.

He doesn't, though. Because this mission isn't over yet, and Casey's not going to blow it if Billy's not. So if Billy can keep breathing, then Casey can be a concerned bystander for just a bit longer.

-o-

Billy's not alone.

This is not unexpected. After all, he's aware that he's in a hospital before he's even conscious. He knows it because of the uncomfortable bed and the taste of cotton in his mouth. The lingering pain is another giveaway, along with the heaviness of medical sedation. Mostly, though, he just _knows. _

And yet, when he opens his eyes, it's a bit of a surprise.

Because it's not Michael. It's not even Casey or Rick.

It's their mark.

The man looks weary, bags under his eyes and stubble on his face. "You had us so worried!"

To the man's credit, he does sound worried. Even drug dealers care about their own, it seems, and the affection might be touching were the man not indirectly responsible for the deaths of many people around the world.

Still, Billy smiles without missing a beat. "Looks like I missed the end of the fight," he quips.

The effort expended is meager but it clears Billy's head a bit more, clarifying the nature of Billy's injuries. His voice is raw and scratchy, which suggests Billy has been out of it for a while, and his arm feels leaden while his head aches. A head injury is almost a given because Billy seems prone to blunt force trauma, but he suspects his arm with its bulky bandage is really the reason for all this, even if he can't quite remember why.

"Bastards got you with a broken bottle," the mark says, looking somewhat grim as he fills in the gaps for Billy. "You almost bled out. And you've got a concussion. You required extensive life saving measures but thankfully there was help on site to pull you through."

It's a plaintive and unimaginative litany of Billy's injuries, but he still finds himself wincing. Now he notices a pain in his chest, and Billy begins to suspect just what life saving measures might mean.

Moreover, knowing his team, he's fairly certain he knows who helped out with that.

"I apologize," the mark continues, oblivious. "My temper is not what it should be after a few rounds."

Billy makes a dismissive sound, shrugging half heartedly. "It happens to the best of us."

The man nods, resolved now. "I will do everything I can to aid in your recovery," he says. "You will be in perfect shape in time for the deal, just as we planned. I will even arrange to transfer you to a private wing."

"That's very generous of you," Billy says.

The man stands and inclines his head. "It's the least I can do for you fighting by my side even when there was nothing to gain," he says. He leans closer, a bit conspiratorially. "Besides, your neighbors are infuriating. Always asking questions and poking their heads in. I told them that you are my damn business, not theirs, but they seem unwilling to believe me."

It's all Billy can do not to smirk, because he has a feeling he knows who his neighbors will be. He suspects a paranoid bastard, a human weapon, and a wet behind the ears kid, all hell bent on checking that their hard work and undoubtedly life-saving measures hadn't gone to waste.

And Billy is grateful, no doubt. His team has always been there for him, and that means something. Really, it means everything.

Still. A little fun might be in order. "You could always have them offed," he suggests fervently, his voice a whisper for pretenses but loud enough to be heard.

The man lifts his eyebrows and points to his nose. "I'll look into it," he promises, as he pats Billy on his good arm and leaves.

As he leaves, the curtain flaps open, and he sees Casey on the bed, Michael and Rick at his side. "Offed?" Michael says. "Really?"

"Well, I am being unduly stalked," Billy says. "Are you even injured?"

"I fractured my hand," Casey says.

"You? The human weapon?" Billy asks with doubt.

"It's possible I injured it on a brick wall afterward," he says. "Because you know how much I love hospital stays."

The sarcasm is dripping but it can't hide the concern. Because his mates are here for him even when they can't be, even when it means breaking their hands and sitting idly by. They probably saved his life – really, probably a whole lot more than that, all things considered.

"Pity," Billy says, settling back carefully, too mindful of the pain in his arm and chest. "I'll think of you fondly from my stay in the private wing."

What he means to say is _thank you, _of course.

When Casey gives him the finger around the curtain, he knows it to mean _you're welcome. _

And as far as Billy's concerned, that's all a euphemism for another job well done.


End file.
